


self-insert drabbles: carmen sandiego edition

by CurlyCue



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other, honestly im a sucker for h/c stuff so thats... probably gonna be common, i will NOT repent. i will gladly go to hell for this man, yes i am a mime fucker and what about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:41:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29172804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlyCue/pseuds/CurlyCue
Summary: things i wish i could do, if i was in the carmen sandiego universe
Relationships: Mime Bomb (Carmen Sandiego)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	self-insert drabbles: carmen sandiego edition

**Author's Note:**

> I am nonbinary myself, so the reader/my self-insert character will use gender neutral pronouns. If they're referred to, it'll be with the third person pronouns THEY / THEM / THEIR(s), or with the second person pronouns YOU / YOUR(s) / YOURSELF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone using a screen reader: 
> 
> IMAGE DESCRIPTION: [The picture contains two very detailed pencil drawings of the character named Mime Bomb. They're both bust shots, drawn from the shoulders up, and he is visibly upset. In the first drawing, there are large tears streaming down his cheeks, causing his makeup to run, and he looks emotionally broken. His face is turned slightly upward and to the right, so he has to look out of the corner of his eye to look toward the viewer. His nose is wrinkled slightly and his eyebrows are drawn together. His lips are downturned in a heartbroken frown, and there are two faint lines just below the lower lip to indicate that it's pushing outward slightly in a pout. In the second drawing, he is facing the viewer almost head on, but turned slightly to the left. His eyebrows are still furrowed, but he looks more frustrated than sad. He has makeup trails down his cheeks and his right eye is squinted shut, the left eye only open just enough to give a hateful look to something offscreen, over the viewer's left shoulder. His lips are downturned, represented by a wavy line with three prominent bumps, possibly representing his unstable emotional state.] END IMAGE DESCRIPTION.
> 
> This first chapter is inspired by the above visual work, by Scepterno on tumblr, who also worked on the official animation in the series. You can find the original post [here](https://scepterno.tumblr.com/182284285754). The plot for the chapter is just basic emotional hurt/comfort, but if you're aware of canon, this takes place directly after Mime Bomb is pulled from the Morocco mission and subsequently harassed by Crackle and Black Sheep.

* * *

  


You and Mime Bomb hadn’t been particularly close, really; you were kind to him, and you shared smiles. You weren’t… _honestly_ close with any of your classmates, if you were honest. The idea of honor among thieves is bullshit, and you knew it, even then, before any of your training; you couldn’t trust any of them, not really. Sure, you laughed with them, trained with them, studied with them, joked with them-- but they were just your classmates, your dormmates, your fellow students: nothing more. 

You were kind, however-- much kinder than the majority of your fellow VILE associates; kind, funny, and absolutely _ruthless_ when you needed to be, which earned you a favorable reputation with most of your peers-- even if you didn’t have too strong an opinion on them in return. 

Which is why, of course, it’s completely within your wheelhouse when you hear loud sniffling from a few hallways over. The sound sets you on high alert near immediately-- it’s rare for anyone to cry on the island, since it’s seen as a weakness, so if someone is crying it has to be something serious. Before you can really think about it-- about how that mindset means they probably want to be alone, unseen as they partake in the forbidden action-- you’re moving just that little bit quicker, rounding the corner and looking around almost desperately to find the source. While your eyes pass over the drab walls and long hallways, you note in the back of your mind, with something akin to dread, that you’re nearing the Faculty room. It makes your mind go a little faster, wondering if this is something you should walk in on, but you’re still walking, and your thoughts are cut off before you can even contemplate a decision; you have to do a double take and backtrack a bit, but surely enough, there’s your dormmate and now fellow graduate, sitting with his knees tugged to his chest, hiding his face. He’s _shaking_.

“Mime Bomb,” you murmur, less a greeting than a realization-- you’re talking to yourself, really, but he still jerks his head up to look in your direction with wide, scared eyes. Your heart falls through your chest and cracks just a bit more. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper, taking in the sight of his wrecked makeup. It takes you a moment, but then you blink and it’s processed, and you’re taking soft, slow steps forward and lowering yourself to the ground to take a seat. He’s silent now, barely breathing; when he does, it’s stuttered, and he hiccups a bit. 

Just meeting his eyes makes you feel your throat closing up and your eyes start to well up, so you look away, suddenly very much invested in studying the specks in the calk between the floor tiles, picking at it absently. Seeing people like this… it’s _sad,_ and painful-- and you’re so _tired_ of being sad, of being in pain, of not having the _power_ to fix things. So tired, in fact, that you’ve refused to care enough about anyone here to feel that way-- but now… you’re graduated. So, you suppose, you do have that power now... even if he’s not really a friend. He’s still in pain, and you could do something about it-- and you find that you really, truly want to-- in other words, you find that maybe you care just a little bit more about the people here than you thought you did. The thought steels your resolve, and you look up to meet his eyes again, except he’s gone back to hiding; you touch his arm, gentle, fingertips resting on his upper arm as he meets your eyes, clearly surprised and suspicious. You make sure to keep your voice and expression soft as you search his face and ask him, “Who did this to you?”

Mime Bomb... doesn’t respond. Instead, he blinks, hard, and a tear rolls down his cheek, but he’s not actively crying-- he seems shocked, more than anything, like he didn’t expect anyone to care even if they found him like this. It makes your chest ache for him. For a moment, he says nothing, but slowly, you see his lip start to wobble again. As quick as it came, his eye contact is gone with a sharp turn of his head, and he clenches his jaw. Through all of this, you say nothing, but you avert your eyes and keep your hand on his arm as a silent show of support. You stay like that for a while, just waiting him out, until eventually, you feel his eyes on you; you turn your head just a little, just a glance, and see him studying you out of the corner of his eye, fat tears still spilling over the apples of his cheeks. In his eyes, you think you see something-- a spark of something tentative... hope, maybe. 

And then, slowly, he starts to open up; he unfurls his limbs, just enough that he has a bit of breathing room. Already, he looks more relaxed. His movements are hesitant, and he bites his lip when he lifts his right hand-- to give him more space, you finally remove your hand from his arm, and his eyes flicker over to where it had been, something like disappointment in them. Slowly, _painfully_ slowly, with shaking hands, he fingerspells... _faculty._

You’re not surprised, really. But it makes you angry.  
So, _so_ angry.  
  
And then he continues. _Crackle._

The name makes the hair on your neck stand on end, because you know how mean he can be sometimes. You know, because it was standing up to that same mean streak that initially earned you the reputation of being ruthless, and already, you can feel your blood boiling. 

And then, he spells out the final nail in the coffin: _black sheep._  
  
Suddenly, you know exactly what your plans for the night are-- and they involve a certain young flunkee, a freshly graduated agent, and five senior thieves. But for now, you force your feelings to simmer down; that anger isn’t what Mime Bomb needs right now. Instead, you take a deep breath, and you offer him a hand. Somewhat perplexed, he takes it-- although he does so with hesitance, and he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to figure you out-- and you gently squeeze his fingers before pressing a kiss to the back of his hands. That’s all you wanted, so you let go for now, setting his hand back in his lap, and you start to tug off your gloves; he’s giving you a weird look, and he’s definitely flustered, but you just offer him a sad smile, holding up one of your gloves. 

“Here,” you say. “Your makeup is running like crazy. Do you want help getting it off?”  
  
It’s not the craziest situation you’ve put yourself into since you got here, but from the way he’s looking at you, just about anyone would think it was. You just give the glove a little shake for emphasis, waiting on his answer. And he doesn’t answer verbally-- not that you were expecting him to-- but his actions speak louder than words. 

For the first time since graduation, you see your quietest roommate crack a smile.  
And for the first time since your arrival on the Isle of VILE, you think you might’ve made a friend. 


End file.
